


Altered States

by stupidsoul



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupidsoul/pseuds/stupidsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a kmeme.  Sebastian watches over Fenris after he is accidentally exposed to an aphrodisiac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Altered States

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kmeme prompt: _Fenris is hit with a potent aphrodisiac. It will wear off on its own, but in the meantime he needs someone to keep an eye on him. Sebastian is the only one he trusts enough to watch over him._
> 
> _I want Fenris telling him exactly what what he wants Sebastian to do to him, and what he wants to do to Sebastian. Lots of writhing attractively in bed, getting off on his own fantasies. +100 if you include Sebastian washing the sweat and cum off of him._
> 
> _Sebastian remains resolutely chaste, but man is he tempted._

The whole situation is disconcerting, a brief visit to Hawke's that has gone completely awry and left Fenris questioning more than once whether the entire incident has not been just some unfortunate dream. The spat he has with Anders is believable enough. The pair have often fought over smaller matters, long before a poor decision on Fenris' part led Hawke to turn to the apostate for comfort. It's been two years since then and while he doesn't begrudge Hawke's newfound happiness (neither has allowed potentially bitter feelings to affect their friendship), it has only thinned his patience for Anders, which is why no one is exactly surprised when their short attempt at small talk ends with dagger-glares, an even more cutting exchange of insulting accusations, and Anders sparking electric blue.

Though Hawke manages to calm down the mage, it is not before Fenris finds himself flying backward into a cabinet of tonics, one coming uncorked above his head and giving him a thorough dousing of some translucent pink mixture. Upon seeing him, Hawke looks appropriately concerned, and Anders sufficiently annoyed. "What a waste of a good potion!" is Anders' only comment as Hawke leans forward to examine Fenris more closely.

"How long would you say he's got?" Hawke asks in a manner Fenris finds ominous. The taller man leans back when he has finished inspecting his friend, his right hand resting thoughtfully against his chin. Anders merely shrugs in response, folding one arm over the other.

"I'd give him an hour at most."

Hawke arches an eyebrow brow. "And then," he quips, "the real fun starts?" When Fenris looks less than amused by the lightness of Hawke's tone, the champion raises both hands up in a conciliatory gesture. "Before you get upset, just remember some people would be very envious of your position right now."

"Why?" Green eyes narrow with suspicion as Fenris presses for answers. "What does it do, Hawke?"

"Well, you won't die."

"Hawke."

The mage clears his throat, knowing that particular tone is the one the elf uses when his patience is about to run out. "All right, on occasion, Anders and I like to spice up things in the bedroom..."

"And this?" Fenris lifts a hand that is coated in the substance, or at least once was, as already most of the liquid has been absorbed into his skin, leaving only the vaguest sheen of opalescence when the light refracts at just the right angle.

"Is the spice?" Hawke flashes a weak effort that passes for smile. "You could say it enhances the, uh, sexual experience."

"So it is an aphrodisiac," Fenris sighs. Though the idea isn't exactly a welcome one (least of all for finding out more than he wanted about Hawke and Anders' relationship), he takes comfort in knowing what he is dealing with. "And just how long must I suffer through its effects?"

"Normally, it only lasts an hour or two, but seeing as you've taken about twenty times the recommended dose." Hawke frowns as he further considers the situation. "There's just no way to be sure. However long it takes to work itself out of your system. Look, I'm guessing your first instinct is to lock yourself up in that derelict estate you call a home, but you shouldn't be by yourself.” For the first time since the mishap, Anders actually starts to look worried, his dark eyes darting anxiously at his lover, and his lips parting in an interjection that doesn’t quite make it past his lips before Hawke says: ”Someone should be there for you, just to be safe in case something unexpected happens. If you'd like, you can stay here with us." A hand falls to his shoulder in an attempt to be consoling, but out of habit, Fenris shakes free of the gesture, and something about the whole act is entirely too familiar.

"No," he says, ignoring Anders relief at his refusal. "I cannot."

 

* * *

"Are you certain I am not imposing?" Fenris asks Sebastian one final time when they arrive at the stoop leading to the abandoned mansion he has camped out in for the past several years. He has already gone over the details of his unfortunate set of circumstances with Sebastian twice, once after finding the archer in his usual place at the Chantry, and then again on the brief walk through Hightown to his home. His accidental exposure to an inordinate dosage of aphrodisiac would have likely left people like Varric or Isabela in stitches, but Sebastian hears him out each time with the sobriety Fenris needs, his response always one of sympathy but never pity (a subtle difference that the elf has come to appreciate). Nevertheless Fenris can't help but feel he is asking too much of the man.

"Fenris," Sebastian's eyebrows draw together, causing the emergence of a small crease on his forehead. "Do you not want me to be here? I would understand if you preferred privacy in this matter." In truth, Fenris would rather bear his burden alone, but he's been cautioned against this inclination, too much variable that things go wrong without someone with a clear head to watch out for him. At least with Sebastian, Fenris can trust the rogue to be both a dutifully capable warden and a discreet one.

"No, I did not mean to imply your company was undesired." Fenris finds himself uncharacteristically wary of causing offense. Somehow knowing Sebastian has always held him in high regard, though the elf has never once intentionally sought it, has made him conscious of ever losing that good opinion.

"Then," the archer smiles, his voice softened with something halfway between amusement and a kindly rebuke. "What sort of man would I be if I did not help a friend out in his hour of need?"

"And we are... friends." The term still feels foreign on Fenris' tongue, and though Sebastian is not the first to attribute such a definition to him, the idea that others think of him this way has not yet lost its novelty. Once again Sebastian greets his words with a gentle curving at the edges of his mouth.

"After two years, yes, I think we are that." He laughs, his blue eyes settling on Fenris with a look of warm affection that eventually transitions into something far more contemplative. "I imagine this is still quite new to you."

"Slaves are - "

"Not permitted to have friends. No, I suspect you were never given much opportunity for such things." Sebastian finishes, easily predicting where Fenris intends to take the statement, and despite his annoyance at being deprived of his own defense, Fenris finds there is something almost comforting in having someone who knows him so well. At last, he pushes open the door to his estate, the old hinges protesting with an audible whine as it swings open. Little has changed since he first took residence there, a layer of dust coating the floors and dulling the once elegant embellishments, the previous owner's possessions remain scattered about the rooms, spiderwebs decorating a good portion of their corners.

"Still," Fenris says as he steps inside, "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"So far it has been nothing of the sort. I enjoy the time we spend together." There is nothing artificial to be found in Sebastian's response, instead he speaks with the casual ease often allotted to details that one takes for granted. Though appreciative, Fenris cannot find the words to properly express his feelings and therefore says nothing. He preoccupies himself with finding a candle. It is still another hour before nightfall, but he has always preferred to keep the curtains shut, blocking the interior of his home from the prying eyes of any neighbor. The subsequent darkness in this deprivation of natural light makes the space difficult to navigate, yet Fenris manages easily, stepping over a trap on the floor that he has not bothered to have disarmed. Sebastian, Varric, and Isabela have all at some point or another offered to take care of it for him, but he prefers it there. Anyone who is welcome in his home is already aware of its existence.

"How are you feeling?" Sebastian asks when the candle is at last lit, and the pair can once again see each other clearly in the haloed glow of its illumination. Fenris cannot help but notice how the play of light and shadow as the tiny flame dances along the tip of the wick accentuates Sebastian's features, the definition of his cheekbones, the fullness of his mouth. His gaze is redirected down the corridor ahead of them that stretches out into unending black.

"As best as can be expected. A little flushed perhaps," Fenris concedes this small point. "But as of yet, there appears to be no cause for alarm."

"Perhaps Hawke and Anders exaggerated the potency of the mixture you were exposed to," Sebastian is determined to be (aggravatingly) positive, but Fenris has never had much use for optimism. Life has not taught him that things are inclined to work out in one's favor. It is better to be prepared for the worst because it is far more likely to happen.

His mouth thins into a skeptical line. "We can only hope."

 

* * *

 

It is unsettling how swiftly circumstances can change. In a handful of minutes, Fenris finds himself going from mildly warm to uncomfortably hot. The idle toying at his collar where the edge of fabric pushes at his throat has transitioned into frustrated tugging on every confining inch of his apparel until he has stripped himself free of almost all his armor. He barely notices that Sebastian has carefully collected each discarded piece from the ground and set his clothing neatly atop the bench across from the unlit fireplace so that it waits accessible for when he is ready to use it once more. His knees want to go out from under him, his steps are placed with legs that wobble beneath his weight, and while on most occasions he is reluctant to turn to others for assistance, when a sturdy arm slides under his own and hoists him upright, his protests lack their usual bite. Despite his outward scowl of projected irritation, he is reassured by warmth found there, the faint earthy scent of leather and sweet chantry incense that pricks his nose and has him curling into the crook of Sebastian's neck as the archer helps him to the mattress.

"Are you well?" The lilt of Sebastian's Starkhaven brogue successfully ensnares his attention. The sound has always been pleasing to his ears, but has grown only more so now. A new, almost alien awareness lodges itself in the back of Fenris' brain, its nebulous existence hovering over the rest of his thoughts like the giddy disconnect of a drunken haze. But rather than dulling his perceptions, the world is amplified, every color more vibrant, every sound captivating. It weaves around him a kaleidoscope of overwhelming sensations that beckons from him delighted curiosity, turning even the mundane act of Sebastian laying his fingers lightly against Fenris' forearm as he settles Fenris onto the bed into a venture to be marveled over. For all the simplicity of the contact, that sudden introduction of skin on skin awakens something in the very depths of his core.

"Sebastian." There is a fierceness in the answering voice that emerges, a low rumble too full of want, and though Fenris tries to tell himself that these are purely the results of the potion's influence, the appreciation he feels as his gaze sweeps over the span of broad shoulders or when he studies the way Sebastian's belt rests snug against narrow hips is not as unfamiliar as he would like it to be. If he is honest, there has always been an attraction there, tucked away as swiftly as it arises, but it now brands him with an insatiable need for closeness, feral hunger for touch that has been too casually offered and then stolen away. He reaches out toward Sebastian, who is leaned over him with an anxious expression, but only grows frustrated as his hands are met by too many barriers left between them, the annoying plates of Sebastian's armor that conceal his more sensitive flesh beneath its shielding like a carapace. Fenris manages a few failed attempts to work free the leather straps looping through metal fastens before the rogue, half-bewildered, stops him.

"I," Fenris blinks, both surprised and embarrassed by his own actions, when he sees just how Sebastian is watching him. He has not completely lost himself to this strange madness. If he concentrates hard enough, he can almost think clearly again through the muddling barrage of his body's irrational demands. "I apologize. That was... inappropriate of me. I don't know what I was thinking."

"The potion has at last taken effect," Sebastian comments, the troubled furrow between his eyebrows softening to a more subdued look of patient understanding. "I fear there is little I can do for you now, my friend." With those words the archer straightens out, his shoulders settling back as he stands to full height. Fenris can easily read his intention.

"You will stay." The warrior objects, and it is neither a question nor a request.

"I shall be just outside the door as you asked of me," Sebastian reassures him, careful to stick to their original arrangement rather than entertain this recent amendment. Though Fenris knows he should be grateful, he only feels frustration at Sebastian's obstinate dedication to the rules set in place. Already he is fighting the compulsion to assert his dominance, pin the rogue beneath his greater strength, to slide off that ridiculous belt and use it to bind his arms overhead, and watch the pious man be tested by tongue and lips and hands until he finally breaks, submitting to Fenris' every whim.

"Then you will leave the door open," Fenris proposes instead for reasons he is not entirely certain, and Sebastian, who knows as well as the elf that this particular detail has never been discussed, falls into conflicted silence, the uncertainty of his thoughts too evident upon his features. But at last, he nods, not sharing whatever justifications have been made for this concession before he goes.

Alone in the room, Fenris sinks further against the mattress. The air around him feels heavy, stiflingly hot, and so he does not bother with trying to slip beneath the covers. His hands, however, elicit a more gratifying response, and it is a struggle to ignore the instinct to trail them lower. His reasons for resisting have become muddled, no longer certain whether he does so for the sake of his own dignity, or the convoluted need to respect Sebastian's Chantry sensibilities. In truth, this is not the battle he has expected to be fighting, the familiar face that spurs a flurry of vicious desire does not belong to Hawke, or even Isabela, both of whom he has acknowledged some amount of attraction after becoming subject to their more flirtatious natures. With Sebastian, their relationship has never been so forward, their every interaction safely within the acceptable boundaries of a solid friendship, but he cannot seem to erase the archer from his thoughts, the image of dark hair and tan skin ghosting against the back of eyelids as he squeezes them shut, the cadence of Sebastian's breathing persists in echoing noticeably in Fenris' ears from across the distance. He is too easily stimulated by the most fleeting memory of blue eyes brightening at the sight of him, a kindly smile offered, words spoken with heartfelt sincerity.

_I bet there's plenty who would admire all you've accomplished._

Slender fingers draw an experimental path across his body, and the ache, which has been building steadily inside him, subsides a little, replaced by an ephemeral rush that races straight to his groin. Fenris’ gaze snaps open in new self-awareness, surprised by the vehemence of his physical response, the heat uncurling in his lower belly. There is a small, stubborn part of him that continues to struggle against the inevitable. He dares not close his eyes again, only to find his gaze veering in the direction of where Sebastian waits in the hallway, his figure stark against the blackness of the corridor, polished white and gilded gold of the finery fashioned by his father, gleaming against the soft glow of candles left to provide meagre lighting to the expansive bedroom. Sebastian stands with the impressive stature befitting a prince, even when he thinks no one is watching. He looks good in his armor, and, Fenris speculates, would look equally good out of it.

Ideas like this one lead down a treacherous path, along with the realization that Fenris comes to that he is quite turned on by Sebastian’s proximity alone. The knowledge that the man would be free to watch, to listen, if he wanted only further frays the tenuous hold of his self-discipline, fingers digging fervently at the sheets beneath him, cloth twining between his grasp until the last thread of willpower, tethering his hands in place, breaks. He indulges the impulse to touch himself, lust slithering through him, liquid and burning, like the aphrodisiac that has worked its way thoroughly through his system. His breathing quickly grows ragged, louder and more frantic in their intakes of air, the pound of his own heartbeat speeding up as his ministrations adopt a more reckless pace. Some distant part of Fenris’ mind finds it humiliating how quickly he comes apart, his control completely unraveled. He bites down against the angled knuckles of a closed fist, trying to silence the involuntary cries of pleasure, but with each compounding reaction incited by the feverish descent of his own hands, the fierce throb of his own need, a groan slides free, and then another.

It spills out of him, every desire flitting through his thoughts in a purr of syllables that compose hasty sentences about how much he wants Sebastian, how much he longs for the feel of his skin or the taste of his mouth, how he would push him down, bend him across the long neglected table and bury himself to the hilt deep in Sebastian’s flesh, making certain that the rogue feels the full length of every thrust until he's rendered weak in the knees and left shuddering with each blissful wave of release. Fenris is lost to delirium. Though he is not typically so vocal, even in the heat of the moment, he no longer cares enough to question the difference now or feel any shame for so the blatant evidence of his arousal. The hardness between his legs is worked with furious flicks of his wrist, the slide of curled fingers and ever-changing applications of pressure. The entire time he keeps his eyes on Sebastian, watching him from the narrow window of space left between the wall and the carelessly cracked door. His reactions are almost too subtle to catch, but Fenris is convinced he sees them, minute shifts in posture and expression with every noise that works itself free of Fenris’ lips. Just once does Sebastian glance over, during the many times that Fenris’ moans his name, before his face flushes pink and he turns away.

This single act burns its way into Fenris’ mind, his perceptions now colored by half-remembered stories he has heard whispered in the Hanged Man or from Isabela, who has sated her own curiosity about the Chantry brother's wild youth via local gossip. Wine flowing freely, the drink still glossy and wet upon mouth curved in a careless grin, a gaze turned hazy both from too much alcohol and the heavy veil of want. Sebastian has never hidden his past, but he has rarely provided much in the way of details. Others have not been so reserved. Sebastian once gave himself to others, not just willingly, but eagerly. A man whose hot-blooded nature was not yet tempered by prayer and vows and penitent confessions. Fenris suspects that passion still runs deeply, lurking beneath the surface, now only occasionally glimpsed in times of vengeance. He wonders what persuasion would succeed in freeing Sebastian of both his faith and armor.

He shivers at the mere prospect that Sebastian can be broken, that he would cross the threshold and join Fenris in his bed, and for a second he almost believes that the tracing caresses down the idling lines of chalky-white lyrium and merciless teasing of nipples into tender peaks are not his own doing. There is a certain frustration in discovering it is in fact only the work of his own hands, though even this fuels his mounting need. His body writhes against the covers of his bed until they have untucked themselves from the edges of the mattress, twisting around him in the contrast of stark white against darker tone of his skin. Fenris shares it all, everything he does, and everything Sebastian does to him, observing the archer from beneath half-lidded eyes where he stands guard in the hallway as the elf slips deeper into the feverish pitch of his arousal. He doesn't know if it's his imagination or a trick of the flickering light but there is something about the way Sebastian draws a breath, how his lips move with unheard words, and his lashes flutter closed against reddened cheeks for just a second, that heightens every sensation Fenris feels, makes it all the easier to picture Sebastian kneeling before him, his angelic face upturned and blue eyes clouded with confusion and lust.

It's the image of Sebastian going down on him that pushes him off the precarious edge, the idea of that all-consuming heat sliding wet and insistent around his length, the push of Sebastian's tongue, the shudder of his throat before it gives way to an invading penetration. His fingers skate featherlight touches over the tip of his erection, before gripping it more fully with the press of his palm. He can feel flesh draw taut, the length in his hand spasm, and then climax comes with devastating effectiveness, hitting hard and fast, every thought obliterated in a flash of blinding, undiluted pleasure.

 

* * *

 

Two hours pass, and Fenris has fallen silent. When Sebastian dares to look beyond wooden grain of the doorframe, which along with the filth-covered floor has occupied much of his focus during the passing time, he sees that Fenris has stilled, his body slack and his hand motionless. His initial conclusion is the reasonable assessment that Fenris is asleep, but then in a brief and less rational moment of panic, he is struck with the sharp fear that the effects of the aphrodisiac have gone unexpectedly wrong. This unsettling notion, as foolish as it may be, persists at the back of Sebastian’s thoughts until at last he enters the room to check on his friend, comforted when he hears the steady draws of slow exhales and sees the rise and fall of even respiration. But standing there, taking in the full sight of Fenris, leaves Sebastian blushing. He cannot deny the elf is beautiful, laid out in unapologetic display of lithe muscle and slender limbs, the coltish length of sleek thighs and the smooth chest damp with a sheen of sweat. Sebastian quickly bows his head, redirecting his line of sight, thoughts forced into more appropriate contemplations of Andraste and her teachings as he has often struggled to do that evening.

"Maker watch over you," he murmurs, ready to take his leave again when he notices Fenris opening his eyes in a series of drowsy blinks at the sound of his voice. The green of his irises look sharper than ever in the intensity of the gaze with which he fixes on Sebastian, and the rogue offers a wary smile.

"I think," Fenris says, but the words prove too fragile against the dryness of his throat that they crumble into a faint rasp as they pass his lips. He starts again with better success. "I think it is over."

Sebastian tries not to breathe an audible sigh of relief. It has not been an easy night for either of them. But he dares not dwell on the recent trials, knowing the memories alone enough to stir the shameful needs of his flesh that he has long since left neglected. There is no reason to bait the weakness that is inherent to all men. “You'll need your rest,” Sebastian advises. “Though I doubt you wish to wake up in such a state. Let me fetch you some water, and,” he hesitates. “A set of clean sheets."

"I'm not sure I have the energy to clean myself off." Fenris does look exhausted, shadowed eyes narrowing with displeasure as he assesses his current state, and he gives a faint snort of disgust before he slides back against a pillow, angular shoulders slumping. The gesture makes him look briefly vulnerable, unguarded, the thinness of his frame more pronounced, and it is easy to forget in that instant those slender arms boast enough power to tear the beating heart from an enemy’s chest. Fenris does not need someone to take care of him, yet Sebastian cannot completely smother the impulse to try.

"I'm here to help, Fenris," Sebastian reminds him. It is a perilous offer to make, one that depending on the elf’s moods may result in a snarl of harsh words, or a more physical display of volatile temperament. On his better days, he is tolerant. Sebastian finds that tonight it is fortunately the latter.

"That would be... appreciated." Fenris cants his head, studying Sebastian with the full attention of eyes that Isabela once called beautiful, and the sheer force behind the look makes Sebastian feel the warrior can see straight into his soul. But it is riddled with imperfection, not the shining example appropriate for a Chantry brother, particularly on this evening. Embarrassed, Sebastian escapes under the pretense of attending to his duties, though neither takes away for long. Despite the size of the estate, the occupied portion of the residence is a mere handful of neighbouring rooms. Freedom has not made Fenris greedy, his lifestyle satisfied by what is efficient and practical.

The cup of water that Sebastian locates for him is drained with generous gulps. Sebastian tries not to notice the way his throat works each swallow, the shallow bob of his adam's apple along the line of his neck. These once mundane observations have never possessed as much influence over the rogue as they do now, uncertain when innocent thoughts were warped into something scandalous. Sebastian scolds himself, replacing such traitorous musings with the many litanies about Andraste’s grace taught to him in childhood. As they sit together in silence, Fenris watches Sebastian intently over the rim of his drink as he has watched him for most of the evening. The recollection causes Sebastian to suddenly find the simple act of dampening a clean towel in the basin of water he has brought into the room a task that requires the full breadth of his concentration.

It is easier to perform each motion in a single step, and not think too long on exactly what he is doing as the cloth slips easily over the smooth planes of muscle, wiping clean the sweat and remnants of Fenris’ seed that has slathered thighs and stomach. But when Fenris' hips rise to meet him, when the half-hard length jerks to fuller life once the swift and almost clinical swipes draw closer, Sebastian hesitates to continue. He stares down blindly with heated cheeks, his mind bearing no real comprehension as he studies the excess water dribbling off the pressed folds of fabric in quicksilver threads that trace the contours of Fenris' body.

"I've been too presumptuous. This should wait until morning," Sebastian apologizes, withdrawing his hand and wondering if he has not moved past being the helpful friend he intended to be. Fenris says nothing as Sebastian retreats, frozen in place in the center of the mattress, the fluid line of his back drawing a perfect curve, his head bowed forward so that the fine strands of his hair fall to veil his expression. And then in an instant it all changes.

Sebastian has seen it before, used in battle, when the lyrium branded into Fenris' skin comes to life in a soft glow of blue light, and he closes the distance on his target like a streak of lightning across the sky. But Sebastian has never been on its receiving end before. It is different to admire this coupling of effortless grace and sheer violent power in a skilled ally than to blink and suddenly find oneself at the mercy of what has oft been observed to be the precursor of a deadly strike. Sebastian's heartbeat stutters against his ribcage, but the acceleration of his pulse is for all the wrong reasons. It is not fear pumping through his veins as it should be. A shadow of his former self shifts in the back of his mind, alert, intrigued. He no longer completely trusts himself to be with Fenris in this state, the admiration he has always felt for the warrior has been corrupted by other feelings, altered by a few heated looks and the possessive manner with which Fenris has begun to speak his name. The prayers, the repeated chants he has whispered to himself throughout the night, have not driven away this need within him. Shame floods him at his own failings, knowing how little it has taken for him to compromise so many of his vows.

“I would not have you leave,” Fenris tell him firmly, fingers closed like a steel trap around Sebastian’s wrists where they are pinioned against the wall and held level with his head. The clarity Sebastian had previously seen in his face is gone again, replaced by blown-pupils and a look of hunger that echoes equally in the growl from his throat. "Can you not see how I respond to you? How hard I am.” He leans in close enough to graze his lips against Sebastian’s ear as he speaks, his grip loosening so that he can slide his right hand along the length of Sebastian’s forearm. The leather bracer mutes the full effect of the elf’s touch, nuances of warmth and pressure lost, but nevertheless the result is the same. A sharp intake of air stills in Sebastian’s chest, his arm falls limply to his side.

“Allow me to return the favor.” Fenris presses his body to Sebastian’s, the push of hips to hips in slow, teasing motions, that even separated by Sebastian’s clothing do nothing to conceal the presence of Fenris’ erection as it is ground against the torturous ache of his own. It is a futile prayer, which Sebastian makes, that Fenris remain oblivious to its existence. His teeth cut down sharply against his lower lip as he stifles the moan building inside of him, desire seizes him in its fervid grip, and as though Fenris can sense his waning resolve, he closes in with predatory precision. His hold digs more deeply against Sebastian’s shoulders, the rhythm of his frotting growing more frantic against the bare friction it provides.

Fenris’ voice is a low hiss when he speaks, “I would hear you cry out my name as I take you.”

For a brief second, Sebastian entertains the idea of giving in, of losing himself once again to a life of reckless abandon. As fleeting and artificial as Sebastian knows such pleasures are, the prospect once again holds a certain allure when it offers Fenris as part of it. But this is the only indulgence he allows himself, a passing fancy soon crushed beneath the weight of duty and solemnly sworn promises. His fingers brush the the sharp edges that draw the face carved into his belt buckle. The ever-present reminder of the vows he has taken.

_Andraste forgive such sinful thoughts._

"I cannot. I will not," he says, though the words are spoken thickly. His lust is not so quickly shed by honorable intentions, but looking down at his friend, he feels another surge of guilt rising up, a brand different from those ingrained by Chantry lessons, which have nagged at his conscience. "You asked me here because you trusted me not to take advantage of your position." Sebastian worries he has already broken that good faith, to have allowed such disrespectful images of his friend to enter into his mind, that he has grown so hard under mere proximity and suggestion. Fenris' actions are excusable, but Sebastian has no aphrodisiac on which to lay the blame.

The elf laughs, the sound cutting in a strange mix of bitterness and desperation. "I asked you here because you were the one I could bear the thought of taking advantage..."

"I don't believe that," Sebastian shakes his head, and he studies Fenris with as set of troubled eyes. "You are not yourself, Fenris." But the warrior does not take well to the reminder. His expression stiffens with cold fury, his mouth thinned with a contemptuous frown as he stares back with an unrepentant gaze.

"I am. More than I ever have allowed myself to be." He proclaims with an expression that is almost wild, and Sebastian cannot compel himself to draw away as Fenris pushes a cheek to his, angles his face to graze the exposed skin at Sebastian’s neck with a mingled rain of kisses and nips and nuzzles. The warm tickle of his breath traces a path along Sebastian's throat. "I want you. I have always wanted you. From the moment I noticed you observing me with such keen fascination..."

"I have done no such thing!" Sebastian stammers, shocked by the allegation, but Fenris’ continues on as though he does not hear the protest.

"Spoken to me with such reverence, as though I was not just someone worthy of saving, but an equal to be praised."

"You are so much more than you seem to think." Affection for the elf tugs sharply at Sebastian’s heart. His voice is vibrant with the fullness of his feelings. His hand falls gently against Fenris’ cheek, and in a brief act that treads the thin border between intimacy and friendship, he bends forward to press his forehead up against the elf’s. But Sebastian dares not remain a second longer than dictated by propriety. More importantly he cannot shake the sense that he is glimpsing a part of Fenris that he has no right to be privy to, revealed by the lowered inhibitions of some mystical concoction, or even worse, the mere fabrication of them. "Fenris, these confessions are not mine to hear. At least, not like this. Not now."

"It is the only time I am free enough to give them." Fenris explains, a bittersweet smile touching the corners of his mouth. There is some element in his voice, some foreboding light behind his eyes, that strikes Sebastian as painfully honest, that if he were to trust that nothing else were real that night, this alone still would hold true. For a second, he truly does believe it.

"Perhaps there will come a day when you and I... " Sebastian says, temporarily lost to the persuasiveness of that feeling, and then he stops himself. "No, there is no point wishing for things that cannot be. I have my vows, and you, I would not have you any different. I’d only ease your troubles if I could. The Maker has set us on this path for a reason."

"Then it is your vows that keep you from me," Fenris concludes.

"Not just my vows. But you, Fenris,” Sebastian explains, suddenly looking very weary. “The you, who will be very glad of that in the morning."

At last Fenris allows Sebastian to slip free, or perhaps it is just the first time Sebastian has made a real effort to escape, but no longer trapped between the wiry frame of the warrior, he returns to his place outside the door. There he waits for morning. Whatever lucidity has visited the elf briefly seems to pass as he is eventually swallowed back beneath the potency of the drug, his hands wander again, exploring his body with frenzied abandoned, stroking himself with the artful glide of nimble fingers, the furious buck of hips into the press of curved palms.

Sebastian wishes such sounds were not so familiar, that the actions and their associated sensations were foreign territory rather than echoing reminders of sinful indulgences too easily brought to his mind. Understanding, in this case, is a dangerous temptation, kept barely in check by murmured prayers. Nevertheless Sebastian maintains a careful vigil over his friend, eyes always averted, trying to ignore the call of his own body, the seductive throb of his own arousal that grows uncomfortably painful between the restraints of his trousers. For all his shame over its presence, he consoles himself that he has not yet stooped so low as to touch himself, a moot point when the temptation should not exist at all, but he clings to what little left he has.

 

* * *

 

When Fenris wakes up, he shudders against the chill of air nipping at his uncovered skin. His covers have been kicked off, fabric lying in a thick coil strewn across the lower half of the bed, so that when he reaches for them blindly, he finds nothing to grasp onto. Reluctantly, the elf opens his eyes, greeted by a familiar ceiling stretched overhead, and the fragments of the previous day seep slowly back into his memories as the fog of drowsiness clears.

Rolling onto his side, he finds Sebastian seated nearby, looking annoyingly fresh-faced and pristine when Fenris feels as though he's just been pummeled into the ground by a high dragon, and then rolled through the tunnels of Darktown. A frown thins his mouth as he remembers a more detailed account of his experiences. When the elf at last finds the strength to prop himself up, perching at the edge of his bed with the sheets untangled and haphazardly cast across his legs in some semblance of modesty, the archer pushes a cup into Fenris' hand. It is very same as the one given to him on the prior night, albeit refilled, Fenris observes idly against the sluggishness of his thoughts. But Fenris can't help but notice a certain skittishness in Sebastian’s approach as though he's ready to push off the mattress in a quick evade at any second.

"How are you feeling?" Sebastian inquires.

"Terrible," Fenris replies honestly. "Every muscle in my body aches." His free hand slips around his neck, massaging the stiff muscle that lines the slope of his shoulders. Sebastian drops his gaze, suddenly appearing very interested in weaving his fingers together where they rest in his lap. There is something in the way Sebastian refuses to meet his eye, his head turned away as though he is hiding more than the fact that his initial cheerfulness has been nothing but a carefully manufactured facade, which unsettles Fenris.

"I suppose that is to be expected after..." Sebastian begins.

"Yes, I suppose it is." Fenris states bluntly, refusing to be at the mercy of any resulting embarrassment. His cup now drained of its contents, he shoves it aside, and before Sebastian can offer to refill it, or retrieve anything else on his behalf as though he were some sort of invalid, Fenris informs him, “you needn’t stay and take care of me. I can manage well enough on my own now.” His tone is unintentionally sharp, and Sebastian's eyes widen, briefly startled, before a softer gleam of amusement brightens their blue.

“You do seem more like yourself again. I’m relieved you are well," His voice is warmed by muted laughter. "Then it is best that I return to the chantry. There are certain... obligations there I must attend to,” Sebastian agrees with nod, a distant look shadows his features, accentuating the tired lines that testify to his lack of sleep during the long hours he spent as Fenris’ keeper. Though many of the details remain foggy for Fenris, muddled between the shameful loss of self-control and the insatiable need, the glance Sebastian gives him as he rises to go resonates with some half-remembered memory. Sebastian speaking to him in a low voice, a tender expression, their faces close together before he replaces unfinished thoughts with statements of faith. Confessions started but never completed.

“Sebastian.” Fenris says, and even he cannot pretend that this recent experience has had no effect on him, that certain feelings for which he was previously unaware have been exposed. Fenris almost reaffirms all the things he remembers stating the past night: the attraction, the desire, the appreciation for the attentiveness for which Sebastian has always shown him. Free of the aphrodisiac’s influence, these thoughts have not changed. But such admissions are ill-fit to reality for one who has never been eloquent in issues of sentimentality or skilled at letting others in. They fail to find a voice. “I am grateful for your assistance,” is what Fenris tells Sebastian instead.


End file.
